A Farewell to Arms
by The Lady Avaritia
Summary: My sister denounced me as her sibling. My father took care of my financial matters. I wrote to my attendant to forward all my correspondence to the Aerugan hotel by the big lake. I received papers and updates on the fighting, but I did not read them. For me the Ishvalan War of Extermination had already ended, and the blue uniform had soiled me enough.


**This is the first installment in a new series if FMA AU fanfiction, and it will run parallel to the other stories in the series, though you don't need to read the other parts to understand the separate pieces. This story will focus on Armstrong, had he taken a slightly different route in the war **

_You may laugh at the man who loved too much, but none will tell the stories of men who did not know how to feel at all, that's what you may console yourself with, but you did not become a hero in the end. _

In the summer of my twenty third year, when I had just passed my State Alchemist evaluation, they put us in trains and shipped us off to Ishval as the human weapons we were meant to be. In my squad I had three other alchemists, three snipers that were nothing but cadets form the academy, one doctor, and several ordinary soldiers. We traveled in the same car of the train.

"_Do not embarrass the family name, Alex_," were the last words my sister said to me, and the last words I would hear from her for the next few years, during and after the war.

I was trying, fruitlessly to dwarf myself and occupy as little space as I possibly could, to NOT draw attention, which was hardly possible for a man of my physique. An uncomfortable silence was stretched over us, and I used it to study the men and women that I would fight beside. The other alchemists I knew barely, by face, by name, by fearsome reputation. Across from me sat Roy Mustang, a charming youth, revered as a genius of his generation with his flame alchemy. Beside him lounged Solf J. Kimblee, who moved in the same circles as my own family did, as a sole heir of a considerable fortune. I had attended the funerals of both his parents, and he had not cried a single tear, not when he lost his mother at the tender age of eight, nor when he lost his father ten years later. He was a soft spoken eloquent well-educated man who had developed his own brand of destructive alchemy and a set of hedonistic morals to go with it. At dinner parties he was not shy to share his often scandalous views and play devil's advocate so skillfully, most men now feared a verbal duel with him. He looked sufficiently smug and pleased with himself, as often happened with men of his countenance, and I disliked him for no other reason than because he seemed like one of those remorseless types Olivier referred to as "debonair douche". Even though she grouped Roy Mustang in that category, I had the distinct feeling that his amiability was a lot less fake.

The third alchemist in our group was Dr. Tim Marcoh, a respected researcher who occasionally gave lectures, if persuaded by the right people. He was of an age where he could not be of much use on the battlefield, but his theoretical knowledge could prove useful, or so the brass had decided. He was engaged in conversation with the other doctor in out group – a man who was known as being constantly displeased with everything and everyone, save for his wife, Mrs. Knox. Betting pools were being made on the date of their impending divorce, as even a woman with the patience of a saint would not be able to tolerate such a bitter man forever.

I did not partake in those. A little less than a year later, the participants would exchange guilty looks as they handed each other money, because another's misery is never to be joked about. A year later many of us would exchange guilty glances with each other for numerous reasons.

I felt that the tension in the compartment was rising to explosive levels and becoming obviously tangible, when, awkwardly, and with no preamble it was cracked broken and torn down to shreds with the sheer force of will and personality of a man who became so crucial to me later on that I can hardly believe it. That man was Maes Hughes and he was a man of honor and goodness that few possess in our time.

"I am going to get married soon as I get back!" he announced in the dead silence. "And Roy here is going to be my best man!"

he clasped a hand on the shoulder of Major Mustang, only to have it slapped away in annoyance.

"Those who brag about the girl waiting for them at home are not likely to make it back to her, do you even read books?' the tacit young man grumbled.

"Bragging? Bragging? I have not even shown you pictures of my Gracia yet, look at her isn't she fantastic?" He produced from his breast pocket a line of small photographs and passed it around. He was glowing, literal hearts floating around his head.

"Tell you what," he said excitedly, "You are all invited ot my wedding, when we go back."

The sheer conviction that we would make it, the simple invitation of friendship extended to all of us strangers seemed to melt down the awkwardness and silence in the car.

"And you're all required to bring a lady friend… or a gentleman with you. No excuses!"

"Plus one invitations went out of fashion somewhere around the time when the ruins of Xerxes weren't ruins," Mustang said.

"Rude," said Major Kimblee. "If you could, in fact, secure yourself a lady for the wedding, you would not be saying that. And you are supposed to be best man."

And that debate, mundane, and ridiculous as it was, is what brought us together.

Some days look back on that faithful train journey across the country and think about all the things that were said, the friendships that were started right under my very nose, and I wonder how differently things might have been if we were not soldiers on the way to the battlefield, but rather ordinary people riding an ordinary train to go to a different part of the country and experience a different culture, not try to eliminate it. For me, there is no pain but this.

Our encampment was near an Amestrian village where we got provisions from. The fighting happened further south. They took us there with cars in the early mornings, took us back in the evening. Each alchemist had a sniper assigned to them, to take out potential threats. Mine was a young man from the east by the name of Jean Havoc. His father had a general store in a village near East City. His dream was to get married. Mustang and Kimblee had lucked out, being assigned two lovely ladies – Riza Hawkeye and Rebecca Catalina. They were friends, and they were from the East as well. General Grumman who was well known as one of the most… senile members of the top brass, was cadet Hawkeye's maternal grandfather. Cadet Catalina had nothing unique about her, other than her ability to handle firearms as tall and heavy as her, and a burning desire to settle down as soon as the bloody war was over. The fact that she was handsy with an anti-tank rifle and liked things that went boom did not escape Havoc's attention. By the second week the two of them were sneaking out behind the barracks in the dead of night.

By the second week Major Kimblee had earned himself the reputation of a one man squad, as well as the less favorable one of a dangerous psychopath with suicidal tendencies.

Maes Hughes showed us every letter he got from his fiancée, and the wedding invitations were still extended to our entire squad. When Mustang and his designated sniper began sneaking behind the barracks in the dead of night all worries that the best man wouldn't have a lady were settled. Meanwhile the letters between Dr. Knox and his wife in Central became more and more curt and angry, until they ceased altogether.

Somewhere around that time they made us kill children. I had sworn to my sister that I would not soil the name of our family. But I had sworn to myself that I would uphold my honor. I deserted the army in the dead of night, with the clear knowledge that should I be discovered, it would mean only one thing – a certain death for me. I did not care. With all my papers, all the money I had on me, I hopped border with Auguro, ditched my military uniform the first chance I got, and was subsequently arrested by the military police not eight hours after my impromptu immigration.

Auguro is a country of merchants. A country that looks well upon Amestrian documents as it looks well upon documents from any other country that does good business. I had with me roughly eight thousand. In my personal accounts in Amestris I had a hundred thousand more. In my alchemy research account – double that. I had burned my state certificate, and any other papers that associated me with the Amestrian military. Instead, like never before, I used my title as heir of the Armstrong family.

In the police department, they put me in a holding cell, apologized politely for having handcuffed me "It is just standard procedure for alchemists you see, and you have the silver pocket watch…"

A very polite flustered official questioned me in a room with grey walls. He asked if I needed anything and served me coffee. He seemed very embarrassed by the whole ordeal and apologized to me at all, calling me "Sir" the whole time.

He asked me my name, my occupation. I told him that I was Alex Armstrong, a State Alchemist on temporary leave. He asked for the reason of my travel. I told him I was there to enjoy summer sport – fishing, swimming, and the summer celebrations in the cities, the parades and such. He asked me about my finances and I told him. He asked how I had gotten across border. I said I had traveled by train from Central, then rented a car, but got lost and somehow ended up in the territories of conflict, so I had to leave the car and continue on foot. The lie was as flimsy as it sounded but it didn't matter anymore. I had a nice solid amestrian passport, I had money that I had come here to spend, and in the end he uncuffed me, still very embarrassed and flushed, handed me back my checkbook and my documents and wished me a pleasant experience in his country, then recommended me good villages for fishing and cities where the summer parades were especially lovely. All I would have to do was upon the arrival in a new city to check in with the local police department – simple security, you see.

I rented a car, drove to the nearest town, which was one of the better fishing towns near a large silvery lake. I took up an apartment in a hotel overlooking the lake, and wrote letters to my father, my sister, and my attendant, asking that all my correspondence be forwarded to the current address.

My father in his typical leisurely fashion assured me that I would have no problems in the military should I decide to return to Amestris. My research account was suspended, but not to worry, he would send me money if I needed it. My sister denounced me as her sibling, just as I had expected and I did not write back to her. Instead I wrote to Captain Buccaneer and asked him to forward my sincere apologies. I knew she would not hear any of it either way.

I received papers and news of the war, but I did not read any. As far as I was concerned the echo of explosions, Major Kimblee's crazed laughter and sound of guns going off were a thing of my nightmares and my past. I had, after all, said a farewell to arms when I left the barracks in the dead of night, with grains of sand between my teeth. The battles weren't my battles anymore.

For me the Ishvalan War of Extermination had already ended.


End file.
